If you are recieving a second copy of this, please forgive me, but I have had reports that it has not gone through for many people on the list. Apologies, Ecolea. Epilogue O'Neill waited nearly an hour by the study door, giving Methos time to pull himself together and making certain no one accidentally walked in. He wasn't quite sure what had happened, but he'd seen Cassandra's expression as she'd left the room and O'Neill didn't think she'd deliberately hurt him. And while he might not be able to shed his own tears, O'Neill had known the sound of grieving long enough in his career to recognize and respect that ability in others. He gave it a little while after the sobbing had died down and went to grab a couple of beers. The hour was late and the party was breaking up, though most of the Immortals didn't seem eager to leave. O'Neill wasn't surprised, good teams were like that. It was the attrition rate that ruined everything. He went back to the study and quietly opened the door, surreptitiously checking on Methos. O'Neill nodded to himself. The man looked calm and was thoughtfully gazing out the window. "The party's over," O'Neill commented as he stepped inside and casually handed the other man a beer. "There's a song in there somewhere," Methos murmured, raising his bottle to Jack and then to his lips. O'Neill said nothing, leaning against the other edge of the window waiting patiently for Methos to speak. "I keep thinking about fishing," Methos finally said, absently running a finger along the edge of one pane. "Well, if a man's gotta think about something..." O'Neill nodded appreciatively. "The offer's still open if you're interested." "Not that kind of fishing," Methos grinned. "But I'll keep it in mind." He sighed as the breeze picked up and the scent of freshwater and green things wafted toward him. "I was thinking about that story in the bible. You know, the one where Christ tells Peter and some of the other disciples to leave everything and come be fishers of men. I've always looked at it in terms of what they'd left behind. Respectability, family, friends..." "A steady income," O'Neill muttered, his brow creasing as he wondered where this conversation was going. "Yeah, stuff like that," Methos agreed. "I always knew it meant more, of course. Not so much leaving it all behind, but unburdening oneself to move forward, but I never felt it, you know? It just seemed...incomprehensible. I always identified with the other guys. The ones who wanted to say goodbye to their fathers or get their affairs in order before leaving -- the ones Jesus said weren't yet ready to follow him." "You wanna go to a revival meeting?" Methos laughed softly. "No," he said decisively. "I was just thinking about what Peter and the others must have felt when they went off. One minute they had homes, families and possessions; real weighty responsibilities in those days. Very heavy on the obligation. And the next they didn't. I didn't understand how they could just leave. I mean, it's what I did -- fairly frequently. But not because I wanted it. I wanted to be the man who got to stay and keep everything. Put down roots and never leave. But religious questions aside," he shrugged. "Maybe all that weighty responsibility was just holding them back. Maybe it was a weight they hated, but couldn't see a way to escape. Maybe they were just waiting for an excuse to leave." "Maybe," O'Neill repeated. "Too bad we'll never know." "Yeah," Methos frowned. "I really should've asked Peter when he baptized me." Jack choked on his beer and stood there coughing. "Yeah," he wheezed when he could finally speak. "Maybe." "Anyway," Methos shrugged. "I keep thinking about what it's like not to have to any of the emotional baggage we carry around with us. To just lay it aside and know you can forgive yourself for doing it. Not just to forget about it -- you can avoid thinking about anything if you really want to. But to actually feel no responsibility for it whatsoever. How does one achieve that blessed state without someone like Christ around to say it's okay?" "Who said they didn't feel it?" Jack asked soberly. "Maybe they felt it, but it just didn't matter anymore because they knew their families forgave them." Methos cocked his head, staring out the window as if he'd just had a sudden revelation. He closed his eyes, smiling wryly. "I should have thought of that," he admitted, glancing at Jack. "When the one you've wronged forgives you, you can forgive yourself anything." "Almost anything," O'Neill told him. "No one's forgiven you those six thousand pushups, Pierson, and you'd better not forget it." Methos laughed delightedly. He was fairly certain Jack knew what he was saying, but had used the opportunity to remind him that no matter what happened he still had a place -- one that carried its own duties and responsibilities. More importantly, they were obligations which somehow helped to fill the empty space inside him that Cassandra's forgiveness had left in its wake. "I won't forget," Methos responded gravely. "In fact," he added brightly. "I'll give you fifty every morning even while we're fishing." "Fishing. Now there's a thought," O'Neill smiled cheerfully, laying a hand on Methos' shoulder and steering him toward the door. "So, what kind of fish are you interested in? Bass, lake trout... You name it and I'll show you where to catch it." "Oh, don't worry about me," Methos demurred. "I'm just going for the view and the reading. You'll be doing all the real fishing." "Already did that," O'Neill drawled laconically, opening the door and grinning widely at him. "I seem to have caught me a big ole minion!"